The Wounded Guardian

by Duncan Lay

Cezar, whose hand had gone automatically to the hilt of a throwing knife, relaxed. At least this patrol was not after him.

  ‘I haven’t seen anyone all day,’ he forced himself to reply as naturally as possible.

  ‘How is that possible? Where can they have gone?’ Havrick raged, and Cezar’s hand eased down to his saddle, where part of the design was actually a throwing dart.

  ‘Sir, that was Barrett the magician with them. If this man hasn’t seen them, and we haven’t caught them, it seems likely he used magic to get them away,’ one of the troopers said respectfully.

  ‘You mean they could be miles away, Sergeant?’ Havrick growled.

  ‘I mean they could be on the other side of the country. Barrett is the Queen’s Magician—he could have taken them anywhere.’

  Havrick slumped in his saddle. Cezar, who seemed to have been forgotten, listened carefully.

  ‘I must tell the Duke. Captain Martil and Barrett the magician together—they are probably planning to rescue the Queen or something!’ Havrick exclaimed.

  Cezar watched them, his heart pounding. This was what Onzalez had feared. One of the Butchers of Bellic was to become a danger to them. And he was too late to stop him.

  ‘Sir, we’ll need to ride to the nearest village and sequester some horses. Ours won’t last a long journey, we pushed them too hard on the way here,’ the sergeant warned.

  Havrick thumped the pommel of his saddle in frustration. ‘That’s going to take too long! We need fast horses now!’ His eyes fell on the string of horses that Cezar led. Even in the moonlight, they were obviously fine beasts. ‘Here we are!’

  Cezar, who had been frantically thinking how to retrieve the situation, was shocked to find Havrick right in front of him.

  ‘Traveller! I need your spare horses! I am an officer of the Duke and you will be recompensed for them but my need is far greater than yours!’

  Cezar’s first instinct was to cut the man’s throat, take out the sergeant with a throwing knife and then gallop out of there. But while satisfying, he knew that would be a mistake.

  So he forced a smile, unclenched his fist from around the small throwing knife disguised as a belt buckle and untied the reins to his three spare horses.

  ‘Who do I say has my horses, when I ask for payment? Each one is worth nearly three gold pieces.’

  Havrick clambered off his sweating horse and had two of his men transfer his saddle onto one of Cezar’s spare horses. ‘Follow at your best speed. I’ll ride ahead to warn the Duke,’ he told them then looked up at Cezar. ‘Just tell them, Lieutenant Havrick of the Lights.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to remember that,’ Cezar smiled, rage bubbling inside. This arrogant fool would never know how close he had been to death at that moment. He watched Havrick gallop off, followed more slowly by his men, while the militia turned back to the village.

  Cezar decided to turn around and ride back towards Wollin. He had to return to Berellia and report his failure. He knew that would mean facing Markuz and Onzalez. But he would survive. And it would not be the end of his hunt for Martil. Cezar had never failed to kill a target before and he had no intention of spoiling that record.

  Perhaps predictably, Karia was the first one to wake, not long after the sun had cast its shadows over the clearing. Whoever had built this cabin had an eye for the ground, Martil decided. The winding trail was slightly raised; just enough to ensure the cabin was hidden from the main road down below. The large trees around the cabin gave privacy, but at the same time, none were so close that someone might be able to get near unseen.

  As long as the wind was blowing in the right direction, to waft smoke away from the road and disperse it, there was no way they could be detected. Still, he was not willing to risk a fire, which outraged a hungry Karia.

  ‘But I want toast for breakfast!’ she declared.

  ‘There’s no fire. How about some dried fruit instead?’

  ‘No, I want toast!’

  Martil refrained from saying he wanted a hot woman and some peace and quiet, but wasn’t going to get either of them.

  ‘When the wizard wakes up, I’m sure we’ll have some then,’ he compromised.

  ‘I’ll wake him,’ Karia offered, starting in that direction, only for Martil to catch her hand.

  He felt the old, familiar surge of anger but took a deep breath instead. ‘I would like some toast as well, but we can’t have it yet. Do you understand? If we start a fire, the militia may find us.’

  This was language she obviously understood. ‘All right. But we can have it when the wizard wakes up?’

  ‘Soon after,’ Martil promised.

  So they ate some dried fruit, drank some water and played first with the top, followed by the dolls, although when Conal awoke, Martil hurriedly pretended to be looking out the window.

  Conal joined them, rubbing at bleary eyes. ‘Morning,’ he yawned. ‘Don’t think we need to worry about the militia this morning. They’ll assume we escaped out of their jurisdiction, although they’ll post our descriptions in the surrounding area.’

  Martil looked at him carefully. Could the old bandit be returning to what he once was—and if so, what would that mean for Martil’s use of the Dragon Sword?

  Conal could not help but notice Martil’s gaze and found himself feeling strangely embarrassed. He had never told his tale to anyone before and could not help but wonder why he had told it now. He was painfully aware he had never worried about what others thought of him back in Thest. It was what had kept him alive when Danir was in one of his rages, and what had led to the derisory nickname Conal the Cowardly.

  Meanwhile, Martil could see Conal’s turmoil.

  ‘Conal, about last night…’

  ‘Yes, Captain?’ Conal did not know why he used that form of address, but it had seemed natural and Martil took it as no more than his due.

  ‘I appreciate you telling me what happened to you. I can say that everyone deserves another chance. I am living proof of that. Whatever crimes you have committed, I have done worse. But the past is just that—behind us. All we can do is our best for that day. You don’t have to be a bandit any more. You can be the man you once were.’ Martil knew the words would help Conal—he just wished he could believe they applied to him. Instead they left a bitter taste in his mouth. He had made too many similar speeches to men before battles, telling them things they wanted to hear, rather than the things he knew were true, to take comfort from it.

  Conal coughed a little, to cover his embarrassment. Time to change the mood, he thought.

  ‘I will, Captain. Whenever you need a spare hand, count on me.’

  Karia thought that was hilarious and Martil just gave him a smile and a nod. Karia was too clever not to pick up on what they were saying if they said too much.

  Conal must have had the same idea. ‘Any idea who built this place?’ he asked.

  Martil took the invitation. ‘None. It must have cost a bit. And why put it out here? There’s no farming land around, and it’s too far from the village’s protection when there’s a known bandit around. And look at it. Even the fireplace is barely blackened. It hasn’t been used much.’

  Conal nodded. ‘Aye, well I suppose the wizard will have answers when he wakes up. We’ll just have to wait.’

  And wait they did while Barrett snored on.

  Karia was quickly bored, despite Martil offering to play dice or ball with her, so Conal suggested playing dolls with her. Martil was pleased, and a little surprised to see her agree. He reflected on the irony that she had taken days to warm to him, while a smelly, one-armed, ugly ex-bandit was accepted almost immediately. There was no predicting the female taste, he told himself, although he was not as pleased to see the old bandit was remarkably good at playing dolls and making Karia laugh.

  So he offered her a trip outside to feed and brush the horses. It broke the monotony but Martil was almost at his wits’ end when they walked back inside and she asked, for the umpteenth time, when she could
have toast.

  ‘When the wizard wakes up,’ Martil said through gritted teeth, thinking this would, in years to come, become an expression to denote an enormous amount of time that needed to pass. The cabin did not even have an hourglass, to allow them to mark the passage of time.

  ‘When will he wake up?’

  ‘Now,’ Barrett said softly, and sat up.

  ‘Yippee! Toast!’ Karia cheered, and did a little dance.

  ‘We told her she had to wait for you to wake up before we started a fire. We didn’t want to give ourselves away with smoke,’ Martil explained.

  Barrett nodded. ‘Quite right. But I am hungry also.’ He pointed at the fireplace, where the remains of the fire Martil had started last night still lay. Instantly they flared up, then went down to red-hot ashes, perfect for cooking but giving off almost no smoke.

  The wizard looked far better than he had last night. His eyes were clear and his skin had lost some of its pallor. He swung his legs out of bed. ‘Let’s eat,’ he suggested.

  As he tucked into a large bowl of sweetened oatmeal, and dried fruit, and Karia had her toast and cheese, she tried to question him through each mouthful.

  ‘Why do you eat so much?’ she asked.

  ‘Magic. It uses up my energy; energy I can only get back through eating and sleeping. Magic can never be destroyed, or disappear, so if we take it, we have to replace it. I used a great deal of magic yesterday while searching for…something, so I was drained when you met me.’

  ‘And how does…’

  ‘Perhaps we should wait before asking him these questions. After all, there are many other questions that need to be answered,’ Martil said hastily, before Karia took control.

  She stared at him and crossed her arms, so he hastily shoved a piece of toast at her.

  Barrett watched them in silence for a few seconds. This was an unusual trio and he was not sure how to proceed with them. His attempt to get back the Dragon Sword had not been going well. By the time he had recovered from his magical duel with Tellite, he had feared Gello’s agents would already be past him. He had spent yesterday travelling around the area, using his magic, desperately searching for signs of the Dragon Sword. It had left him exhausted and dangerously vulnerable last night. The trio had saved him. But he doubted they would be able to help any further.

  ‘Indeed. Perhaps we should start at the beginning. You know my name and that I am the Queen’s Magician. I know you are Martil and the girl is Karia, but who are you really?’

  Martil shrugged. ‘I am better known as War Captain Martil of the Ralloran army…’

  Barrett swallowed his next spoonful too fast. That name was familiar. ‘A Butcher of Bellic?’

  ‘Not my official title. But I was there,’ Martil admitted sourly.

  ‘My apologies. I have been part of the Royal Council for three years, and we receive regular reports. Please continue.’ Barrett leaned back and looked at the man with renewed interest. What was a man such as he doing up here? And why was he with a small girl? At least he appeared to be no friend of Gello’s thugs…He listened carefully as Martil explained almost all that had happened until meeting up with Barrett at Darry’s inn.

  ‘It was lucky for both of us,’ Barrett acknowledged. He decided he would help these people get away from Gello. It was the least he could do, although it would delay his mission somewhat. ‘Your help was given, and should be rewarded. I can get you back over the border into Tetril. You should be safer there from Gello’s thugs.’

  ‘Is that why you are out here?’ Martil asked.

  Barrett took another mouthful of oatmeal while he pondered how much to say. Not only was there a risk to them but, after spending the past few years being unable to trust anyone else in the palace, old habits died hard. ‘No offence, but you are a Ralloran, your friend is a Tetran bandit and the girl is the daughter of a Norstaline one. I am not about to confide in you. Now, I will see you to safety and the debt between us will be paid. Although I would appreciate you answering just one question. Why was that officer so angry with you?’

  ‘We’d had a run-in near Wollin. He thought I had the Dragon Sword,’ Martil said dryly. He was looking forward to puncturing this pompous wizard’s arrogance when he revealed what was in his saddleroll.

  ‘They are searching everyone,’ Barrett agreed, ‘but why did you not just agree and then be on your way?’

  ‘The first time was because I don’t submit to anyone,’ Martil fired back. ‘And the second time, because I actually had it in my saddleroll.’

  Barrett paused for a second, then roared with laughter. ‘Excellent jest! I can see those rumours about you Rallorans not having much of a sense of humour are wrong!’

  Martil just looked at him, not saying anything, while a quick glance told Barrett that nobody else was laughing. His smile slowly died as he felt his heartbeat increase. ‘You can’t be serious?’

  For an answer, Martil just went over to his saddleroll and produced the bundle, unwrapped it with a flourish and displayed the glittering scabbard.

  Barrett surged to his feet. He would know that scabbard anywhere. He had feared he had failed in this mission but here it was now, being handed to him! He could see the Queen’s smile and see her gratitude—it was the familiar subject of his secret daydreams. It was almost too good to be true!

  ‘Aroaril’s beard! It is the Sword!’ he gasped in astonishment.

  ‘We were going to take it back to the Queen,’ Karia declared.

  Barrett sat down, his mind racing. He had to return to the capital as fast as possible. ‘This changes everything,’ Barrett said, half to himself. ‘This could save the country.’ He looked up. ‘You must give it to me!’

  Martil made no move to do so, on general principles.

  But before Barrett could make a stronger demand for the Sword, Conal piped up.

  ‘There’s no point in him giving it to you. He’s the wielder. He drew it.’

  This time Barrett’s mind went blank. Finding the Sword had been his quest for a few days; finding a wielder had been his obsession for three years. But a Ralloran warrior, especially one with a reputation like this, was one of the last people he had expected to be given such an honour. He struggled to get his mind around it.

  ‘You drew it? How? What did—I mean, a Ralloran! How could…’ he stuttered over himself, before he looked anew at Martil. If this was true, this man was now the most important person in the country.

  ‘I must ask you to prove it,’ he said politely.

  Martil shrugged and drew the Dragon Sword, its bright blade catching the morning sun as it shone through the window. Barrett just stared in awe.

  ‘You are the wielder of the Dragon Sword. Truly, magic moves in mysterious ways. I could never have believed a man labelled the Butcher of Bellic could draw the Sword. It must have seen something amazing in you.’ Barrett looked again at the Ralloran. What would this mean for Norstalos and, more importantly, his beloved Queen?

  Martil was pleased with the change in the wizard but frustrated by the way he was insistent the Sword was somehow sentient.

  ‘Please, sit down, we have much to discuss. You have an enormous responsibility upon you.’ Barrett tried to think where to begin. He and the Queen had spoken about this so many times, made so many plans—but those had all depended on the Queen being free, not a prisoner of Gello.

  ‘Can’t I just give it back to the Queen?’ Martil objected.

  Barrett bit back a sharp comment. There was so much this man just did not understand! And he hated having to explain himself. It was a fault of his, he knew. The world was full of idiots and he resented having to indulge them. He had spent years developing and honing his mind, while he felt most people could have their brains swapped for a few spoonfuls of pease pudding without any discernible difference. ‘Impossible. You are the wielder of the Dragon Sword. It will allow no other until your death.’

  Martil felt his heart lurch at the thought. ‘Is that really true, th
at this thing will kill me if I do not become the Queen’s Champion and its official wielder?’ If it were true, then Father Nott need not do any more meddling, for he was already mired in some sick destiny.

  Excellent, Barrett thought. He’s finally starting to realise what being the wielder entails. Now I can take charge of him. ‘It’s true. You must become the Queen’s Champion and help her fight off Duke Gello.’

  ‘What if I don’t want to get involved in another war?’ Martil objected.

  Barrett smiled thinly. ‘You drew the Sword. It is yours now, until death, with all the responsibilities that entails.’

  Martil felt the weight of that crash on his shoulders, and could not help but slump in his chair.

  ‘It is not all bad. The Sword can do wondrous things for you. And the rewards of being the Queen’s Champion…I tell you, now we have the Sword, defeating Gello will be easy. And then you can relax and enjoy a rich life.’

  Martil doubted it would be that simple. Things never were. But he could see where it was going. He was going to have to at least go and help the Queen. The only hope was the entire country was obsessed with the bloody thing. Perhaps Gello would just give up without a fight. Either way, it looked like he was going to have to at least try to act like a Queen’s Champion.

  Barrett interrupted his thoughts at that point. ‘How did you come by the Sword?’

  So Martil elaborated on his earlier tale, with help from Conal when it came to what happened to Danir’s band and how the Sword came to be there. Barrett’s anger grew as the evidence of Gello’s treachery was revealed. Could this come before the Council? Perhaps there was a chance to sway some of the other nobles back to the Queen…

  ‘I wonder if the bodies still have their surcoats?’

  ‘I doubt that. I don’t know where the ambush was, but even if we could find it, what do dead men prove? If they were alive they could admit to stealing the Sword but if we turn up with dead bodies, wouldn’t they just think we killed them?’ Conal shrugged.

  ‘You seem to know something about crime,’ Barrett muttered, seeing the logic but reluctant to watch some of his hope being dashed.